


Painted Eyes

by Quern



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dolls, Fiction, Gen, Horror, Original Fiction, Paranoia, Paranormal, Violence, haunted doll - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27500614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quern/pseuds/Quern
Summary: Marcus, a middle-aged appraiser of curios, battles with his fears of a doll pushed onto him be his sister, and the truth behind her mysterious assault.





	Painted Eyes

_Why must it stare?_

That single line echoed perpetually through the figmentary chamber of thought of an anxious man questioning what the fates had woven for him. His aging hands occupied themselves with the pointless shuffling of legal paperwork that had previously been loosely splayed across a cherry wood desk. The evening sun shone into the second story office room, highlighting the grayed temples of what was usually well kept black hair, now a few days unattended to. There was apprehension in the way the wide faced scholar hunched over his work, arms tight to his torso as he braced his forearms against the edge of the table. As his brows pressed tighter together, he chose to hazard another glance at the object of concern. Just as it had the last several times, it returned his gaze with those dead circles of black and green paint. The eyes of a waking nightmare.

Marcus had always hated eyes. Not their existence, per say, but those fleeting moments where they would meet were dreadful to him. That sudden rush of self-doubt, those psychic hints of the other's true intentions one catches glimpse of through that central abyss; They were truly torturous creations, he thought. As the middle child of three, this was often waved away by adults as a syndrome brought on by his birth order. All they saw was muted rebellion against family and civility alike, ignoring obvious signs of fondness throughout his home life. No, surely it was that deep seeded complex that was to blame.

It isn't as though he lived unaware of their purpose. How could he be when his career as an appraiser was so reliant on their use. His work at least provided an acceptable excuse to pass on the act, focusing more on the items brought to his attention than on those requesting his expertise. There was simply some primal revulsion that he could never repress when society demanded he align his sight with that of others. A strange sort of knowing came from it - like cracking open someone's skull and peering into the gape in order to read their thoughts. It felt unnatural, and that was what bothered him.

Even with his various gripes, there was still some solace within that occult learning. The eyes of the living were still living. Though he disagreed with the ability itself, there was worth in being able to see those hidden joys and deceits clear as day when all other expressions worked to hide them. The relief of knowing certainly didn't outweigh the negatives, but it was more than nothing. Certainly better than those of the same kind as his current source of unease.

Above all else, dolls were his greatest bane. There was nothing to be found in their stillborn glares, and that lack of something was the most disturbing part. Corpses that never rot were all they were. There was no real trauma for this unease. Just an instinctive distrust.

To reinforce that concern, there were those occasional clients that would happen upon some well-worn plaything of such sort and think to cash in on the find. They would always make some small effort to pretty the wretched things up before presenting them to Marcus, their eyes filled with hopeful greed. They were the worst. It seemed to explain why they brought the worst things to him. Without fail, these dreamers were quick to take offense to him informing them of how little these objects were actually worth. They would curse his name, tail between their legs, and storm off in search of a second opinion they would never find. Gods only knew they would surely accuse him of bias, should any ever learn of his phobia.

Were that not enough, these blights frequented his personal life all too often. Though he loved her dearly, his twin was obsessed with these porcelain monstrosities. It all began with a gift from some elder relative since passed too long ago for Marcus to even recall their face or name. Some celebration or holiday just outside the range of clear memory. It was only the doll that remained. How it's twisted sneer mocked the world as the little Martha pampered it. It's frozen face held so few truths that the only logical conclusion was that it was filled to the brim with trickery and evil intent. Oh, how she loved that demon. His sister brought it with her everywhere she went for a year after. Through storming nights with beastly howls, to the brightest summer days. Even as she began to bring new members into the fold, Martha always made sure to give the primarch its due. Never once did it seem to look at her with the same affection, so far as Marcus could tell.

The one now sitting on that adjacent bookshelf seemed to carry itself in much the same way. Though trickery was exchanged for malice, the intentions were conveyed the same. It wore no smile. Whatever meaning its creator had in sculpting a face only the most scornful of humans were capable of, Marcus did not want to know. Pairing such traits with that dreary Victorian attire made the thing almost haughty. It seemed to say, " _I care not for this world, and less so for you_ ", with every inch of its detail. To think this had once been Martha's favorite piece of her collection, and had since bestowed upon him in the midst of her unrest.

Marcus conceded that his opponent was a natural champion at staring competition. Graying nebular eyes returned to the assorted documents, praying as they re-scanned them for an error or unfilled line. Anything was better than continued acknowledgement of the unnatural behaviour of his imposed housemate.

 _Why must it stare_ , the thought replayed. A hopeless mantra. Marcus had already foreseen his fate the moment it began - when what was once a forward-facing gaze abruptly locked onto him. Whatever spirit possessed this vessel was bound to bring him harm. Just as it had surely done to dearest Martha.

Despite the particular origins of his disdain, Marcus had never truly been the superstitious type - though he was a staunch believer in Martian Canals by this point in his life. In the shadows of his God-fearing family, he was quietly agnostic. The town of his childhood entertained a number of folktales and urban legends, but few could reason themselves out of other explanations. Even during the mystery of that hamlet's forest undergoing huge chunks of destruction, it was he who proved correct in assuming it was a bear when they found the remains of another - clearly a territorial dispute. The papers even reaffirmed such.

But this was different. This was unnatural. A doll only moves when it is moved by another. Just as in those distant instances of Martha teasing him by placing them in his closet, or under his bed, there had to be a will behind its animation.

But Marcus lived alone. He was not particularly involved with his neighbors, nor had there been any signs of a break in recently. He had no children, and Martha hadn't visited him in a good few years. Any machine in production at the time would have been too technical and loud to install or operate unnoticed. Plus, what reason would anyone have to do so? No, this could not be so easily reconciled by practical notion. Another dark mystery resided behind those eyes.

The anxiety of these thoughts had grown too much to bear, and the sun had set low enough now to require the use of his Tungsram desk lamp. His work was clearly finished, and any more time spent in the company of this room would surely drive him mad.

As per routine, he set the papers down in a neat pile on the left of the desk and heaved himself up from his rolling chair with a feigned huff of normalcy. The man wasted no time from there to the door of the wall opposite where the doll remained. It swung open silently into the narrow corridor of month old wallpaper and freshly rehung portraits. Quick on his arthritic heels, he stepped into the hall and moved to re-close the entry to the office room. A morbid curiosity set in just before it shut. Surely it wasn't still following him with its eyes.

It couldn't be.

It shouldn't be.

Yet it was.

Once again, two pairs of orbs were locked onto one another. Were it not for the shutting door, they would have stared holes into each other's heads. Solid wood swinging between them made breaking line of sight easy when frozen by small drops of fear. He shook them off his brow to regain momentum in his thoughts. He would need this small peace for what he knew he would face later.

The end of the day was something Marcus used to enjoy. Molting from his stuffy clothes, then lazing a while in a warm bath just before climbing atop the king sized bed kept all to himself. It was a pattern built to his tastes after long days of consultation. Now, it served to remind him of all his vulnerabilities. Immediately after entering the bedroom, the portal behind him was to be locked and bolted - the latter was a recent installment. His body sagged with fatigue in every muscle and wrinkle of sand hued skin. Veins bulged like beacons for an assailant's attentive care. He was well past his prime, and doubted his own ability to defend himself without the aid of a tool. A pistol purchased the day before and kept in the drawer of his nightstand was enough to satisfy that paranoia. Bathing was short and economic - waste no time, lose no life. Were it not for the biological need, Marcus doubted he would sleep much at all anymore. This must have been what his twin had gone through just before her meeting with fate.

For the longest hour, he lay awake in the center of the mattress. Eyes closed just enough to be able to open at the start of any sound beyond the veil of growing rain. None had yet been made, but he knew they were coming. The last four nights, he'd heard them. The pitter-patter of feet that weren't his own beyond the barrier of his door.

He had suspected they were made by some rodent at first. The neighbors had been discussing how the local squirrels had taken to attic communes as of late. Though likely to be hyperbole, the old church three streets over had been filled with all sorts of woodland animals every morning. Foxes were even comforting the rabbits, so they claimed. At the time, it was an amusing parallel to the last things Martha had discussed with him over the phone. It was purely rational that the sounds that had stirred him awake that first night with the doll were likely the same. He paid them no mind until the morning, but couldn't find any sign of their entrance or departure. No holes were found in the walls or ceiling. The attic remained pristine and acorn free. The only disturbance of any sort was an old wood carving had gone missing. It wasn't of any importance to him. A former client had let him keep it after learning it didn't have as much worth as they had hoped. Though it could have easily just rolled behind some furniture, so he left the search for a later date.

Night two was much of the same, though the seeds of doubt had been planted within him earlier that day. It had been just as many nights since he'd held possession of that toy as had passed since his last visit to his sister. Within that small window of time, a great deal had occurred in his absence.

The news had come from one of Martha's neighbors - a friend from her school days. A rather healthy looking woman of copper hair, familiar to her old peers by the moniker of Viv. Not much of a gossip though she was, Viv made it a point to keep informed on enough to point others in the right direction of local events. It was something born of pride, but this was big enough to make an exception. She was personally attempting to piece what had happened together as well, but felt the urgency of matters demanded that she inform Marcus of what she knew thus far. A courtesy as past loves and distanced friends.

Some time in the night, strange echoes had rung from the forest. It had woken her up, but she'd heard it a number of times over the course of living in town. Viv confessed that though she had chosen to sleep despite it, others had not. A few of the nosier residents had peered outside through various windows. The consistent claims involved something stomping heavily towards the town, those eldritch cries growing ever louder, and those that braved the noise observed a massive shadow lumbering towards the street.

This alone was little more than the start of a new folktale to Marcus, and he said as much. Viv cut his dismissal short with the real reason for concern. The morning that followed, two people had been located having been assaulted within an inch of their lives: a watchman found at the edge of the woods, and Martha in her own entryway.

Both victims were in tatters. They had bled profusely, and neither had regained consciousness despite how long ago they had been wounded by then. The scene with the watchman had little to go by beyond a few scuffed trees and the lines of blood flung every which way. There were a few fractured ribs, but most of his damage was from slash marks that covered his body. Injury was always a risk of such a profession, but one doubted whether this sort of situation was considered in the job description.

Martha was in some ways similar, but in others, far worse. She too had been sliced from head to toe with rows of claw marks. Interestingly, however morbid, she had also had her right femur snapped like a twig at its center. Due to the protrusion of the lower half in combination with the other open wounds, there was little fear of clotting, but she had bled for far too long before she was finally hauled off to the nearest hospital. The scene of the attack was in just as foul a state as the victim. Portraits were smashed, walls had been frantically carved and dashed with liquid vitals in the same manner as the woman, and what was once an oak door was little more than a head of wooden shrapnel. The only other detail of note was a few claw marks left on the open door to her doll collection, which had otherwise remained untouched. As one of the few educators in town, her absence was difficult to ignore. Many of her students, as well as their families, were already prepared for mourning.

Viv, on the point of tears herself by now, could offer little comfort to her old companion. His face melted with sorrow, though he shed no tears. Placing a wavering hand upon his shoulder, she continued to inform him of his sister's new location. It wasn't much, but she invited him to join in going to visit, which he wordlessly accepted. They spent little time there before being declined by the doctor involved. It was simply too soon for Martha's condition to be determined. Upon returning to Marcus's home, they parted with only short condolences.

The third night was more enlightening, though only by a head. During the day, more news of attacks had worked their way into his own neighborhood. The new victims were among those that had claimed to glimpse the creature from before, as well as a few of their families. No new sightings occurred, but the beastly howls had been accounted for yet again.

Footsteps startled his consciousness just a moment before fully entering that dreaming state late into those indigo hours. Curiosity being the powerful drug it is, Marcus sought to ease his peace of mind by investigating. There was always a spare candle left on the dresser beside the bedroom door for just such night time wanderings. Some time was wasted attempting to ignite a match, but he lit a small flame for himself eventually and ventured beyond the protective ignorance of his chambers.

The sound had ceased by the time he had taken his first step into the hall. The general direction from which he had heard them last had been from the stairway leading down to the ground floor. Though his residence had two stories to it, the actual number of rooms it contained were few in comparison to their size. This left only as small set of options to explore: The parlor that connected to the front door and stairwell, a minuscule washroom beneath the stairs, the kitchen and adjoined dining room, and an unoccupied bedroom currently in use as extra storage. The crescent formation of them made for a simple search order. Start with the parlor, follow the path until the storage room.

Marcus moved with some care towards the staircase. They weren't worn enough to create much sound at all, but that didn't stop his still waking mind from perceiving that they bent in anguish from every step. In spite of these delusions, the air from the floor below remained still as he continued his approach.

The parlor room remained as he had left it. Not a particle of dust on any of the underused furnishing showed any sign of disturbance. The washroom was more of the same. Though all too soon to call it a night, by now Marcus was running through a number of other possible sources for the sound. Perhaps it was a branch on a tree outside, rattling daintily against a window. Or, more likely, the noise was something conjured up from his own still active dreaming. Whatever the case, the perpetrator had yet to be identified, and in that moment, he thought it would remain that way.

The kitchen was a red herring more than an indicator of anything truly out of the norm that was occurring in that place. The bright glow of a waxing moon was angled just so to provide an ominous beam that slanted through the dark of the room. The sound of his socked creeping amplified the growing anticipation of something or nothing. Candlestick raised and ready, Marcus scrutinized the area as attentively as those prior. Atop each counter, throughout every cabinet, there remained no signs.

Then came a gust against the glass. The windows creaked abruptly as a gale swept through town. The mood of the time allowed these sounds to briefly lift the man off his toes, but not enough to provide more than an instant of shock. It would have been laughable, jumping at the shaking of glass panes. It would have been, if it weren't for another high whine gracing him from the left - from the dining room.

This audible anomaly had nearly taken the full advantage of the wind's passing. The distinct range matched the gradual movement of a door hinge perfectly - almost mute, but just shrill enough to grab a fraction of attention. Eyes moved first, head turning on its swivel to keep up. In that exaggerated light, it was as clear as day. The opening which led to the dining room framed it exquisitely within the gallery of his memories. The door leading out into the backyard had opened just a tiny bit by unseen hands. That alone was cause for alarm, but it was the movement attached to it that burned the scene into vivid recollection. Something like a snake from the void was slithering from the storage room to the outside.

The event was short and sweet; the tail escaped into the world beyond these walls and slammed the door behind itself by unknowable means. Before Marcus could take a single pace towards the intruder, it was gone. But where it had been was still worth observing. A hesitation of thought, then a change of plans. He rushed to the back door and searched the whole of what vision its window allowed. Only a faint trail of dragged mass led into the hedge. Into mystery. A frustrating conclusion, but better than any grim alternative.

The store room couldn't provide any further explanation of any sane sort. A faint mist of dust filled the air and sparkled in what tiny amount of light reached its contents. A variety of discarded trinkets, counterfeit artworks, and unconfirmable finds littered the place. It was, at a glance, the same as it ever was. The same as it ever was. Except━

At the far corner of that room, at the end of the walkable pathway from the door, sat a stack of extra dining chairs meant for abundant company that their owner never invited. The six of them stood there in an awkward pillar facing the entrance to their tomb. At the foot of the bottom most seat lay shards of a freshly shattered marble vase. The mess was worsened by the fragments of reddish stone being thickly coated in some form of black-violet gunk which webbed them all to the polished wood floor. Grotesque, to be certain, but it paled in comparison to what stood triumphantly atop that pieced together tower.

It was that horrid thing. Its lightless hair still as flawless as when Marcus had placed it on that bookshelf. It remained just as expressionless, too. Beyond the obvious oddity in its present location, limbs that were previously limp and unbalanced now stood naturally upright as it peered miles beyond the opposing wall. Its flat hands were crossed elegantly in front of its stomach, as if it had been waiting for him to find it.

Nothing about that scene spoke at all of logic, but perhaps he had simply forgotten placing it there. Keeping the doll inside the store room made for better peace of mind, so it wouldn't be too far outside the realm of possibility. Surely he was too tired to recall properly. That must have been it. And so he left it, and returned to his slumber.

The morning after offered a fantastic truth. He had begun his day just as any other, though with a heavier heart due to the trouble surrounding the past few days. He woke, dressed, and prepared himself some coffee before retrieving the day's newspaper. An easy set of habits for an easy life. Continuing with the usual program, he went to his office room on the second floor, planning to gain some small joys out of an already dreary day. What met him instead was that blasted doll, sitting not on the bookshelf nor within that lower room, but atop his work desk. How or why this inanimate shell was moving about, there was no telling, but now he knew with certainty that something was amiss. Something beyond average reason. Something unholy, and quite likely something linked to the answers to that recent tragedy, rest within this heartless vessel.

● ● ●

Thinking back on all of this had lulled Marcus to sleep without him realizing, though his mind continued to reminisce. Silence had stripped his guard away after worry had left him weak. In his dreams, his mind relived that last birthday just five days ago. The siblings had spoken on the phone just a week before then. They had chatted over their typical work days, and Martha was quite enthralled in the various things she had seen in the woods. Somewhere along the discussion, they had decided once again to spend their shared celebration at Martha's home. She had inherited the one they grew up in, as Marcus felt it wiser to live closer to the city for his profession. They weren't terribly far from each other, but both were always occupied with maintaining their livelihoods. Birthdays simply made for an easy excuse to reunite.

The day arrived, and Marcus drove those two hours that separated their abodes. The road one followed ran through that forest of myth, and was always in the same state as when he moved away. Somewhere along the center, there was a clearing that allowed vision of the trail of broken trees that had started all the rumors. It was the easiest reference for a halfway marker for him. Though he was more inclined to urban living for sure, he always enjoyed glancing into that maze of trees as he passed them. That particular trip, he even swore he saw a huge bear scratching at a tree far in the distance of those woods - a detail he enthusiastically recounted to his sister upon arrival.

Martha was clearly more fatigued than she had sounded over the telephone, however. Her normally sleek black hair was sleeplessly disheveled, and her eyes puffed up as though she had been weeping for days. She had grown considerably paler since he'd last seen her as well. Her focus darted to her doll room every now and again during the visit with noted agitation. She was never very good at keeping a secret, so her brother simply assumed she had stored his gift in the one room they both knew he would never enter - a now recognizable misjudgment.

When the moment finally came to exchange gifts, she insisted that he go first. It was a request so selfishly out of character that he had no choice but to ask if she was alright. Martha simply played it off as middle-aged excitement, so Marcus respected her wish to keep her silence. He handed her the cardboard box sealed tightly with twine. Boney hands dashed with the seeds of liver spots worked at the bow. The string unraveled, and the cover removed to reveal the secret within.

His gift to her had been picked out a month in advance. Though he personally detested them, he would never actively deny his twin her vice. The store owner was well traveled, and had come into possession of an authentic creation from an eastern nation that the man had failed to disclose. It was amazingly crafted to look like a living child as accurately as possible. He hated the look of a dead fish the marbles of its eyes gave off exceptionally, but such a detail was something his sister has always said she longed for in one.

When she looked upon that selfless gift, the sudden gravity of how well she truly was charged into the open. The prediction of raised brows and widened eyelids was not there. Instead, her visage twisted to extremes. Her thinning eyebrows crumpled inward, the points of her lips sagged strenuously. She held her prize for continued life at arms length as if it gave off a horrendous odor or dripped of malignant disease. Never before had Marcus seen her act this way towards the thing she cared so deeply for. This was not the reaction of the same girl he had grown with, who had even cared for the most nightmarish of clown effigies.

But before he could begin an interrogation into her odd behavior, she had set the doll back into its packaging and onto the coffee table between them.  
" I suppose it's time for your gift then", Martha declared, eyes pinned to the floor. She sped from the living room too quickly for any protest or question to reach her, though there was doubt that she would have stopped to hear them. She returned a good twelve or so minutes later. Long enough to amplify her sibling's concerns further. Whatever she had was hidden behind her back as she scuttled over to where Marcus was sitting. All the worries kept piling up. She took a long breath in, then released it with trembling tone.

" Don't open this until you've returned home." Such a foreboding command from one typically so unruffled. Even in her subdued panic, she held the presence of mind to eventually follow her request with a desperate," Please."

Given all the signs, there were few reasons to accept her demands. Her fingers clenched around the mouth of the burlap sack as she presented it. She did so with haste. Her entirety trembled with every fraction of a second that passed without a response. And her eyes - the madness that filled them to the brink of tears was too much to stomach. A reaction more fitting of him, given the stillborn occupant of that threaded womb.

But he could not allow her to suffer anymore distress. His heart full of sympathy, he relented. It was not the doll that doomed Martha to her fate. It was him. He had accepted her burden.

Thus, he was the one that cursed her.

● ● ●

And then it came. That anticipated signal to break the rain cloaked stillness of night. That dreaded trigger which had stirred Marcus from once peaceful slumber now echoed distantly beyond the door to the rest of his home. The faint tapping of ceramic steps drifted through the spaces between the door frame. Tonight, they would wake him for the last time.

Every ounce of angered determination flooded his system. The appraiser threw off his sheets and went to the drawer containing the New Service he had obtained precisely for this moment. It had been loaded and ready in the event he was not. With haste, he made his way to the locked door, undoing the restraints of his haven. He gripped the knob firmly, taking one last deep breath within that perceived safety. Marcus was ready, or so he believed.

The instant the space between him and his target opened, the fates had already conspired against him. Far off beyond heaven's torrent, something called to the appraiser. A deep bass thundered from the west. From the trees. This booming voice shook the atmosphere as it droned on. Rational thinking drew comparisons to the cries of a whale, or the fury of a hurricane. He counted the seconds. Three. Four. Five. The echo off the brick houses prolonged it further. That thing which harmed his sister, he knew now, was onto him.

But the door was already open. To retreat now would be to accept ill fate, and vengeance was never in favor of such. Better to charge the hunter than sleep in wait of wolves. Marcus burned the maxim into his being, and made his first defiant steps into the whole of his home. The beast outside could be heard growing ever nearer, but the one already in these walls had not been heard since the aging man had raised from his pillow. The realization halted him once more.  
 _Strange_ , he thought with a sudden sense of caution.

Was it lying in wait somewhere? The last he'd heard it, the tapping led downstairs once more, but there was nothing else. Perhaps it was conducting some ritual to call forth whatever manner of creature was audibly shambling towards his locale. Would a bullet to the caster stop the spell? Or was it too far gone to send that monster back already? Marcus could not know, and did not want to hesitate on it further. He had already wasted time on it. Too much, in fact.

The thing that lurked in the night was faster than anticipated. Another deafening grumble announced its presence only a moment before it forced entry into the house. The spontaneous destruction in the entryway reignited the fire beneath Marcus's heels. Gun raised, he rushed for the stairs. The heavy rain masked the sound of his descent well enough to realize the threat that feather footed doll posed. Senses were on full alert, taking in every detail they could as he arrived at ground level. Marcus braced his aim as he rounded the corner towards the commotion of the entry, but he couldn't have been less prepared.

In that pale blue light in that doorway in that house, it stood. A hulking hole cut through reality formed the body and limbs of this solid shade. Though it cast its own shadow, it case no reflection from the rays beaming down on its shape. Its only visible detail were the three eyes placed roughly center between its shoulders. They seemed to be illuminated by some unnatural force that made the white of them all the more contrasting with the emptiness of its extremities. A clutter of thin tendrils sprouted from what Marcus could only assume was its lower back. They swayed here and there much like tails of a cat, though he doubted they served a purpose even remotely similar. Four trunk-like legs protruded from beneath the bulk of its outline, and two massive arms ending in four sharp prongs flowed from the top to brace its hunched self against the polished floor. It was tall enough to require such, lest it scrape against the low ceiling mere inches above it.

Though the creature's body faced the man, it was transfixed on something much lower to the ground than itself. Marcus had been so horrifically captivated by the eldritch being filling the room that he'd failed to notice the third entity present. He followed the demon's gaze to see what else but the doll standing between the two of them. It's stance was curiously aggressive. Legs stood in a sturdy "v", while arms were hung powerfully at its sides. It seemed to stand in protest of the intruder - or perhaps it was a commanding posture for its pet.

Whichever the case, Marcus was hesitant to engage either of the two. Bullets could fell beasts of nature, of which this thing was clearly not. The asymmetry of its eyes denoted signs of deformation, but the physics of it all invoked fears of a far more twisted origin. Though he had forsaken faith long ago, were anything to strike prayer back into his heart, it would be this.

Then it looked at him. Not how an ocular organ turning in its socket of flesh would look at him. The entire shape of those eyes which seemed to be painted onto its reality shifted to face him as though tilting a card. It was as though they persisted in some realm of space all their own, and the body was merely a window through which to see them. It was far worse than any set the ommetaphobe had ever encountered. Worse than the most ghastly of dolls. Each pupil seemed to hold hundreds more within - a dimension of infinite paranoia - as they gazed into his existence. He found himself trapped within their hideousness. The more fearful he grew, the harder it became to look away. The prior day's mantra rang once more throughout his psyche.

_Why must it stare?_

Its prey now trapped by that hypnosis, the fiend slowly outstretched one of its enormous hooks towards him. The distance shaved away as Marcus's eyelids widened to fully comprehend his own demise. A breath escaped some disguised orifice of the volumeless mass in its growing anxiousness.

And then, from the bottom most portion of his vision, he caught it. That fragile plaything lifted a leg only to thrust it back down against the hard ground with a resounding crack. The horror froze, its eyes breaking away to stare down the delicate object. Some invisible contest of wills was taking place, it had become clear. But why? Why did they continue their stand off as they did? What possessed the doll to halt this abomination? And why did the abomination agree to stop?

The answer, at least to that final query, lay deep within those windows of the soul. Marcus could see it. Just as with other life, he could read the emotions hidden within those pupils. There was fear. Some primal instinct had gripped this entity and begged it to flee. If a beast of its sort could have fought, it surely would have by now. What manner of peril this small faux child could have possibly contained was well out of reach of this skeptic, but the demon saw it clearly.

How long the three stood still for, the man would never know for sure. When the stillness finally stopped, it was from the reluctant retreat of the intruder. Shifting its gaze from target to defender the whole way, it trudged in reverse the same way it had arrived. Once it had backed away a good few yards, it bellowed one final time in defeat. He saw it turn towards its home, and melt into the night once more.

Exhausted and in disbelief, the old man's legs gave way. He slumped to the floor, gasping to make up for air he had forgotten to take in during the commotion. The gun had fallen with him, his grip no longer firm enough to keep hold. The appraiser had yet to blink as he watched for any sign that the withdrawal was a bluff. Again, a strange movement drew his attention back to his apparent savior.

It was mostly the same as it had been from its last movement. The change was fairly subtle in how it's head had turned slightly to the side, as though to look over its shoulder. Though he knew he owed the doll his life in this moment, Marcus's instinct to survive festered in anticipation. The dolls head turned to him with reduced speed, as though to show him its movements were of no secret, nor concern. But more than that, it's once expressionless face had morphed. Its eyelids slightly ajar against lifted cheeks and toothy smirk. It smiled at him like a child filled with pride, begging for the praise and love of its guardian.

It was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.


End file.
